Firestone Hot Springs each must die someday

As he stalked the reaches of the Hot Springs, Rian began to wonder: would they all perish? The season, so far, proved unrelenting in its assault upon the Wilds. A fierce chill had settled deep into his bones and he'd been unsuccessful in shaking it. Every night when he laid down to sleep, he watched as the den entrance slowly filled with new fallen snow. And, every morning, he woke to dig himself out and emerge—not new, nor revived, but to repeat the same mechanical steps. Walk, patrol, mark, eat, walk, patrol, greet his mother, sleep. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

However, today he was not alone. A voice echoed across the eerie silence of the reaches—a deep, resonating sound, that caught in his frozen ears and set alight his heart with something akin to unease. The words were foreign; like something out of a long-forgotten age. Rian shifted his course and broke into a trot, his strong legs eating up the distance until he came upon the discarded fawn and saw Kjalarr's form retreating into the fog. He furrowed his brows in confusion and looked from the carcass to Kjalarr, and back again only to start off after the would-be King.

"Kjalarr?" He called out softly with a half-raised tail and a scrutinizing cast to his jade eyes.